“Move out to your own place,” Victor said, his voice flat as he sat down at the modest kitchen table in their cramped flat on the outskirts of Manchester. The evening meal lay untouched between them; it would have been foolish to postpone the conversation any longer.
“Come sit, Alice,” he asked in a low tone.
Alice turned off the gas stove, hesitated, then faced him. “What’s the matter?” she asked, concern edging her voice.
Victor avoided her eyes, a flush of shame rising in his cheeks. “I’m leaving. There’s another woman Julia. We work together. This isnt just a fling, Alice. It’s true love. I cant keep lying to you or to myself.”
Alice accepted the news with a quiet dignity that surprised even her. She didnt wail, didnt throw dishes, didnt beg him to stay. She simply nodded, taking his decision as it stood.
One point, however, gnawed at her: Victor wanted her to take the children her teenage daughter from a previous marriage and their young son and move to a tiny studio he called her own territory, as if he simply needed space for his new life.
That night Alice lay awake, counting the 17 square metres of the studio, the two kids, her modest accountants salary that barely covered the bills, and the thin promise of “help when possible” from a man who had just walked out on them. How was she to survive? Why should she be the one to sacrifice so much for his comfort and new love?
In the morning she met his gaze. “Fine, Victor. Ill move out.”
Victor smiled, pleased. “Good. I always thought you were sensible.”
“But theres a condition,” Alice interrupted.
“What is it?” he asked warily.
“Youve fallen for someone else; I wont argue with the heart. I wont split the flat, even though the law would give me half. Keep it.” She paused. “Im taking Daisy and Tommy to my studio. Well make do a bunk bed, a few adjustments.”
“Tommy?” Victor blurted, bewildered.
Alice stared at him. “The boy stays with you.”
Victor laughed nervously. “Youre joking! Hes little! He needs his mother!”
“In England, parents share equal rights and duties,” Alice replied, each word deliberate. “Youre his father. You asked for him, remember? I want a son to watch football with. So, Ill pay child support as the law requires, and you can have him on weekends, as far as you can manage.”
Victor shouted, “You cant do that! Youre his mother! What kind of mother abandons her child?”
“Im not abandoning him; Im returning him to his father,” Alice said calmly. “Hell stay in a spacious flat near the garden, not confined in a cramped studio. You said the conditions werent ideal, so let him have a decent home with you and Julia. Let her learn the role of stepmother while you build your new family.”
Victor protested, “I have work! Im busy all day! Who will take him to the nursery? Who will feed him, bathe him, put him to bed?”
“I have work too,” Alice replied evenly. “Ive managed these four years on my own. Now its your turn. The boy needs a male influence. You always said I spoil him. So raise him. Make a man of him.”
Victor clutched his head, pacing the bedroom. “This is madness! Julia wont accept a child. Shes twentyfive. Why would she want someone elses kid?”
“Thats your problem, dear,” Alice said, crossing her arms. “Youre the head of the household. Decide.”
The double standards wore thin. If he wanted a new life, he had to take responsibility.
The packing took two days. Victor drifted like a ship without a rudder, alternating between pleading for pity, threatening, and invoking conscience.
“Think of what people will say!” he hissed as Alice boxed Daisys clothes. “Your parents, my parents theyll all think youve gone mad!”
Alice sealed the box with tape. “Let them gossip. I cant stretch two salaries into one flat. Do you want the mothers of my children to end up in the infirmary?”
The hardest conversation was with his mother, who called three times that evening, sobbing into the phone. “Darling, bring the boy back! Hes yours!”
“Mother,” Alice answered wearily, “you live in Brighton. What can you do? Send money? Your pension is a pittance.”
She had made her decision. Victor was the father; let him be a father in more than name alone.
On the day of the move, Tommy ran around the flat as if it were a game. Alice knelt, brushed his hair, her heart tearing. She wanted to hug him, to run away together, but she knew a moments weakness would let Victor crush her beneath his demands. She would be left alone with two children, no money, in a tiny room, while he enjoyed his new life.
“Son,” she said, looking into his bright eyes, “Mum and Daisy will be staying somewhere else for a while. Youll stay with Daddy. Youll play, youll walk. Daddy loves you very much.”
“Will you come back?” Tommy asked, clutching his stuffed rabbit.
“On Saturday, well go to the park and have icecream,” Alice promised. “Listen to Daddy.”
She rose, took her bag, and left. Daisy waited at the door, headphones around her neck, silent but supportive. Victor stood in the hallway, pale as wallpaper.
“Are you really leaving?” he asked, voice cracking.
“The keys are on the nightstand,” Alice said. “The medicine list is on the fridge. He has a slight sore throat; it needs rinsing. And dont forget the parentteacher meeting on Thursday.”
She walked out.
Victors first week alone turned his world upside down. Mornings began not with coffee and a kiss from Julia, but with a scream, Daddy, Im hungry! He chased around the flat for missing socks, burnt the porridge, spilled the milk. Tommy refused food, spat, demanded cartoons. Eat it! Victor shouted, already late for work. Tommy began to sob again.
Victor felt like a fool, clutching his belt, then tossing it aside, hurling chocolate to silence his son. At the nursery the staff gave him sideways looks. Dad, why is the child in a dirty shirt? Did you forget a change of clothes? You need to pay for the curtains.
At work his performance slipped. His boss called him to the carpet twice, hinting that personal affairs should not interfere with duties. Evenings became a second act: picking Tommy up, dashing to the shop, cleaning, cooking. Within minutes of Victor tidying, Tommy would scatter toys across the floor again.
Julia appeared on the third day, wrinkling her nose at the sight of the chaos. Victor, we were supposed to go to the cinema, she complained, not taking off her shoes.
What cinema, Julia? Victor answered, hair disheveled, one sock missing. I cant leave Tommy alone.
Then hire a nanny! she snapped.
How much? My mortgage already eats half my salary! he retorted.
Tommy came charging down the hallway, markers smeared on his hands, and collided with Julias trousers. Auntie, look, Im a tiger!
Watch it! Julia shrieked, stepping back. Hes my baby, hes worth a fortune!
Hes a child, Julia! Victor barked. Stop blowing up! Help would be nice!
My job is not to be your nanny, she snapped, eyes wide. I want attention, not diapers.
Victor blurted, My exwife spent four years looking after him while I was at the office! The words surprised even him.
Julia huffed, turned, and slammed the door. She never returned.
By Saturday Victor looked like a shadow, gaunt, stubble growing, dark circles under his eyes. The flat resembled a battlefield. When the doorbell rang, he stumbled to answer, tripping over toy cars. Standing there were Alice and Daisy.
Mum! Tommy shrieked, lunging into Alices arms. She kissed his cheeks, Hello, my darlings. Are you both alright?
Victor leaned against the doorway, knees trembling, watching Alice as if for the first time. He finally saw the Herculean effort shed borne for years, smiling through hardship. He had called it staying at home, but now he understood its weight.
Alice he croaked.
She raised an eyebrow. Take him, please. I cant manage. Im about to lose my job. Julia left. I Im at my wits end.
Alice set Tommy down gently. Go, love, show Daisy your new drawings.
The children scurried off. Alice surveyed the sink full of dishes, the dried porridge on the stove, and sat on the same stool shed occupied a week earlier.
I wont return here, Victor, she said evenly. After what youve done, I wont live with you.
Victor flailed his arms, Forget her, forget Julia! He covered his face with both hands. I get it now. I was wrong, everythings wrong. But Tommy Im a terrible father, Alice
Learn, she said sharply. But I know a child shouldnt suffer. I have a proposal.
Victor lifted his head, hope flickering like a battered dog. What is it? Ill agree to anything.
Ill take Tommy. Well stay in this flat. You move out.
Where? he stammered.
To my studio that same seventeen square metres. Live there, bring whoever you wish.
Youll rewrite the deed, split the ownership equally between the children, so I cant evict you again for some new love, she added.
Victor opened his mouth to protest, to call it theft, to claim the flat was his too, but the memory of that week flooded back the night cries, the fever, the endless cycle of panic. He saw the empty flat, the helplessness.
He looked at Alice. She wasnt bluffing. If he refused, she would walk away, and he would be left alone with a responsibility he was disastrously unprepared for.
Alimony will be fixed, Alice continued, sensing his hesitation. Youll also cover half the fees for clubs and lessons. Visit Tommy whenever you wish; I wont stand in your way. Well live here, without you.
Victor stared in silence, then exhaled. Alright. I agree.
Alice nodded. Pack your things, Victor. The studio is yours. Ill hand you the keys now.
He rose, shuffled to the bedroom, fetched his suitcase. He had lost everything his family, his son, his pride. Yet as he zipped the bag, a strange calm settled over him. After seven long years, this felt, however painful, the only right step.
